


Deviant Somnambulist

by TheSpaceCoyote



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dersite/Prospitian, Dream Sex, M/M, dubcon??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2012-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 15:06:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSpaceCoyote/pseuds/TheSpaceCoyote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jake has a very interesting wet dream, courtesy of one anonymous Dersite dreamer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deviant Somnambulist

**Author's Note:**

> My first DirkJake fic! Inspired by these pictures here: http://mirrorshards.tumblr.com/post/17020858081/continuation-to-halmetmachines-amazing-pic and http://hamletmachine.tumblr.com/post/17015109528/puck-and-i-were-talking-today-about-where-a-derse
> 
> Jake is really fun to write.

 

 

Jake is 150% positive that he is dreaming. He can sense it, the slight fuzzy edge to each thought, the delayed reaction that reflects the sleepiness in his brain.  

He briefly wonders if this is one of those instances of sleep paralysis, and that certainly seems _likely_ as he finds he can move nothing. Not even the tips of his fingers can muster up the slightest wiggle. 

Though he can still see, though perhaps seeing isn't the right world. At the very least, he is dimly aware of his surroundings, like some form of seventh sense activated in the dreamy eye of intuition. 

Everything around him is _yellowness_ , which is odd. Yellow never seems to be a dreamy, fantastical color. And yet it vaults above him like a convex ceiling scribbled in sunny gold. 

 How very queer. 

 And suddenly a blotch of purple interrupts the endless yellow and if Jake could he would give a very unmanly squeak of shock, but as it were his lips remain paralyzed and he can only dimly observe in his dream state as the Monetian splotch appears to move back and forth and becomes recognizably humanoid for a moment. 

 A heliotrope dream bloke. Right-o. 

 The face of the person above him is a blur, so indistinct that Jake isn't even sure if it is a person. In the way that Jake considers things people, anyway. He's playing with dream rules now, and it very well could just be a purple blob, a purple blob that had arms and hands reaching towards him and trailing down his petrified chest. His breath hitches but his body doesn't move, and the blob, undeterred, works his fingers down to the crotch. And he feels _that_ , and he jolts a bit, but he doesn't wake up.

The fingers still at his sudden hypnic movement, and Jake finds himself wanting to shout out _no, no keep going_ and even though he doesn't speak the purple blob continues after a moment, starting to rub him gently. 

Jake feels himself getting aroused and hard at the blob's ministrations, the blob working him to hardness and oh _bugger_ , this is one of those dreams, isn't it?

And yet there's something--something about this particular dream that's different from any past fantasies of scores of loose-lipped cerulean dames on their knees. 

There's an edge of pure desperation in the strange blob's movements, and despite the lack of any context whatsoever it wrenches Jake's heart. _I'm sorry_ comes unbidden to his immobile tongue, and even though it's completely impossible he feels that the blob's need and despair is his fault. 

Blast it, he wishes he could move and do something, and not just because it's frustratingly aggravating to be completely still while one is being pounded off down there. But because it seems like the blob needs it, needs him to breach the isolation between purple and yellow and green and-- _oh_ , bother, Jake feels his body uncurl and release into the stranger's hand and in his subconscious he lets out a drawn out moan. 

After a moment the blob moves in close and for a instant Jake's dream is just awash with purple before two pinpricks of sun blaze through and suddenly the blob has lips and they fix onto his, once, twice before retreating. Jake can feel the reluctance in the hesitant brush of lips that remains for a moment after the second kiss, and as the blob pulls away part of him seeks to follow it, to take the pain and desperation and fear that he feels radiating from the bruised figure and break it into pieces. 

When Jake English wakes up his boxers are soaked and his shirt clings to his body, wet and smelly with sweat. Embarrassment clouding his face despite the fact that he is alone, with not another soul around for thousands of miles, he slides out of bed and awkwardly shuffles to the bathroom. He shakes his head and the dream slips through the sieve of his mind until it is nothing more than a curiosity, a novel happenstance that in the end means nothing but a pair of soiled underwear and a fresh change of sheets. 

And somewhere, somewhere scores of dimensions removed from the freshly disturbed tranquility of Earth, a Dersite spy slips away from a boy trapped in gold and waits to wake up.


End file.
